


Dromomania

by silverstardust



Series: Cartharsis [1]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: Catharsis, Cycle of Rebirth, Existentialism, Forests, Mental Health Issues, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, The Comet, Wanderlust, author projection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 08:29:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverstardust/pseuds/silverstardust
Summary: Dromomania was a historical psychiatric diagnosis whose primary symptom was uncontrollable urge to walk or wander. It has come to be used non-clinically to describe a desire for frequent traveling or wanderlust.





	Dromomania

Dromomania, they called it, or wanderlust. Whatever it was, it held its icy grip on his mind, around his heart and lungs, and held tightly, refusing to let go or relent. It came, and went, in terms of strength, but it was always there, like a plague, in the back of his mind, sometimes a dull whisper, others a raging scream. His sisters look at him with eyes full of pity, and sometimes, if he listens, he can hear his mother cry at night about it, and the adults whisper of it, when they think he is not listening, hushed voices telling tales of his father, who disappeared long ago, beckoned by the grip around his heart and mind. It had engulfed his father, claimed him, and never let go again, and sometimes, now, it's so strong around him that it does seem, that this is it, this is the day it wraps its icy, inky black fingers around every inch of his being, and drags him down with it.

  


Like now.

  


Although Moomin is right next to him, talking as plain as day, it is nothing but a faint, distant echo in Snufkin's ears. Slowly, ever so slowly, his arms drop to rest at his sides.

  


The forest is not too far away from where they are. There is no wind, where they are, but the trees in the distance sway, waving their branches, beckoning, and the songs of birds echo from the treetops, and the underbrush and the wildflowers seem to grow and bloom before his very eyes, like seconds are months, and minutes years. The branches of the trees become their arms, soft and tender in their caresses like no person could ever hope to be. The sunlight that filters through the leaves, the tree canopy, is warm and temptatious, inviting and silky to the touch, soft fleeting strokes along his cheeks and chapped lips, along his shoulders and spine and the back of his hands, a whisper's breath along the shells of his ears and the tip of his nose.

  


The half eaten apple, long forgotten, tumbles out of Snufkin's grasp and to the ground, where it will rest until it ceases to exist, eaten away by insects and wild animals, rotted by the elements, and buried by the soil, its atoms scattered back into the world, into the universe, to become something new, something different, that it had not been once before.

  


The forest reaches out with its inky, black fingers, dirty and unholy, pure and free of blemish, and tightens its grip further around Snufkin. It whispers seductively to him, of promises of perfect calm and serenity, of things yet to be seen, yet to have been discovered and experienced, and sinks its sharpened claws into Snufkin's soul.

  


A half sigh escapes Snufkin's throat, and the world ceases to exist around him, like the comet had come back, orange tendrils of fire and unbearable heat shooting from the sky and destroying it all, from the tallest mountain to the tiniest grain of sand, and everyone and everything in it, and all that remained from the comet's rage, that continued to exist, was himself and the forest.

  


The forest in front of him is unending, immortal, but always changing, a perfect world in which Snufkin will never thirst, nor grow hungry, nor tired and weary. It will only ever be him amongst the trees and their tender embrace, the wildflowers and their gentle caress, the sunlight and the wind, and the tender kisses they place upon every inch of Snufkin's skin. An endless world to travel, no boundaries and no end, no rules and no expectations, just... being. The whisper of the forest echoes like a scream in Snufkin's ears, unrelenting, demanding, begging.

  


His father, long ago, had listened to its begging screams and demanding whispers and perfect promises. He had walked into the forest, in the dead of night, and was never seen again, had ceased to exist, atoms scattered back into the world, into the universe, to become something new, something different, that he had not been once before. Snufkin can feel him, in the warm sunbeams, in the gentle breeze that pushes his back in encouragement as he walks a trail, the summer strawberries that, here, grow sweeter than anywhere else he's found them, in the soft fabric of his jacket and scarf- Joxter may be dead, long gone, in the eyes of others, but Snufkin knows better, knows the impish, playful energy too well to know that those sunbeams, that gentle breeze, the strawberries and the wool are all atoms recycled from what once used to be his father.

  


Snufkin does not belong here, amongst these people, in dead forest walls that are designed to ensnare and trap him, to keep him in, filled with false, pretty promises in the painted walls and the lace trimmed pillows. Unnecessary, stifling, too much, too much, not at all like the forest that has claimed every atom of Snufkin's being, simple, complex, full of true beauty without hideous lies, cruel, kind, nurturing and merciless. Those dead, blue walls, and dead, red tiles are nothing but dead, nothing like the living, breathing wood and the living, breathing earth beneath Snufkin's bare feet, alive, so, so full of life, and growing, constant, changing. The forest will not force him to stay in one spot forever. If Snufkin were ever to grow tired of the forest, although, he thinks, he never will, it will change around him- change for him, to whatever the deepest depths of his mind desires- a bog, full of will o wisps in sparks of lavender and baby blue, the raging, murky ocean, the eye of a thunderstorm, with rain pelting his skin and thunder shaking the heavens, and the crackling of lightning all around him, making his hair stand on end as he stands amongst its chaos.

  


The forest knows him like no other can, like no other can hope to, like no other can even began to imagine, it knows all of his sins, and holds it tightly in its cupped, black hands, his deeds held tightly within like water, threatening to over spill and poison the whole forest, and hides those deeds away from the eyes of even God, and absolves him of all those sins, taking his murky grey being and dying him as white as he had once been in the moment of his birth.

  


Snufkin stands, and walks into the forest.

  


And in that moment, he, too, ceases to exist.


End file.
